Oh, Lauren: I saw the time of your posting . . . you just couldn't WAIT to share that little "gem" with us, now could you??? (yes, I am laughing and appreciated it)
 In fact,I sure appreciate POEMS about it rather than IT itself. Lately we have talked a lot about "reclaiming" certain words and feminism-related phrases, ideas, etc. but I just have to say I do not care to RECLAIM menstruation; I want to DISCLAIM it and furthermore PROCLAIM that no matter how anyone tries to "soften" or "make it more acceptable"--I can guaran-damn-tee you that no woman out there, in her right mind, anyway, would have CHOSEN this Plague of the Period.
Period.
 I have to say that I was dreadfully in fear/awe of my mother, but had she chosen to throw me a "menarche" party, or suggested I watch the moon in search of Harmonizing with the Curse Goddess, I'd have run away from home and never returned. As it was, it was bad enough to suddenly be denied most of my tomboy-related pleasures while bending over agonizing in pain that seemed intent upon rending me in two. And even today, I DARE some woman to accost me in a public restroom with dripping, red-foaming sea sponge in hand and expect me to engage in informative discourse . . . grrrrr. Whatever the opposite of "menarche" would be is what this woman just might encounter if she caught me on a particularly-bad day (and I'd just blame it all on PMS, because I'm sure I'd never be able to cop a self-defense plea)
 But even in all this, there IS some humor:
 My Mom (God rest her sadly-missed soul) had never found tampons comfortable, so when I started on the great Periodical Anatomical Chart, those first few months of Kotex and elastic belts were sheer torture on top of the Hell. So . . . in a rare burst of bravado, one day on the way home from school I stopped at a drugstore and bought some Tampax (even saved my allowance instead of buying 10 packs of baseball cards a week for that month.) Anyway, I ran home, esconced myself in my room, and dutifully read ALL the instructions before trying one in for size. Voila! Success! And so much more comfy than the pad . . .
 BUT
 How to keep Mom from knowing? Well, I suddenly started asking her to buy Pepsi in cans (bottles were still quite common back then)because--in the days before recycling--with a little patience, a used tampon could be safely sequestered
and thus discreetly tossed out with the can. Or, when Mom started worrying if I was diabetic becasue I was so thirsty, I would wrap the evidence in a paper towel and dispose of it in a garbage can somewhere along the way to school. As it was a 2.7-mile walk, I even made it a point not to use the same can too often, lest anyone suspect (and maybe tell my mother!!!!)
 But Mom being Mom, I was ferreted out after a few months (I hadn't stopped to consider that I should have been taking Kotex out of the box we shared, just for appearance's sake). And much to my surprise, I was not scolded or punished for my rebellion, which of course would have added inestimable insult to injury to misery to torture to Hell.
 Watch the moon? Treat myself to a special bath? Fuggidaboutit. Ain't nothin' gonna make this luntcovin' woman rejoice about/reclaim this subject!